


traces of me in your veins

by tgrsndshrks



Series: sibling verse [1]
Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Crossdressing, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Panties, Sharing a Bed, Sibling Incest, Underage Drinking, this is an au where they're brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 08:37:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7427806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgrsndshrks/pseuds/tgrsndshrks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>John's stuck there, just blinking, staring. It's not that he's never seen anything like this. He's watched what he considers an average amount of porn for an 18 year old boy in incognito windows on his laptop. Just not in person, and not his brother.</i><br/> </p><p>or, tim is john's older brother. five times john tries to get tim to fuck him and the one time it works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	traces of me in your veins

**Author's Note:**

> i wish i had an excuse for this other than my terrible, terrible sibling incest fetish and a constant desire to ensure that my status in hell will be of high honor. zahra and julia both talked me into actually writing it instead of just throwing the idea around so you can kinda blame them. but not really because this was my idea in the first place.
> 
> content warning for incest obviously, as well as one character coming onto another quite strongly while drunk. there is also what may be read as manipulative behavior, so if any of that is potentially triggering, this is probably not the fic for you.
> 
> title from spade by marilyn manson. save me the shitty comments. anon is off. thank u and enjoy ur stay in hell. satan's gonna love me.
> 
> ETA: HOLY SHIT GUYS!!! the love of my life devon made a playlist for this fic!!! [here's the post on his blog.](http://brianhwarner.tumblr.com/post/152356447432/) thank you so much devon it's perfect!!! i'd def recommend reading the fic first. i will also link it in the end note.

It's an honest accident.

John just happens to get home early from practice, still swinging his keys around his finger with his guitar case in the other hand. Tim doesn't have class today, and he's not in the kitchen, so John figures he must be downstairs in the basement watching another movie, exactly where he'd been when John left. He drops his guitar case and keys on his bed, heading down the hall and starting down the stairs to the basement.

John's about three steps down when he hears a distinctly feminine sigh over the sound of the television. He stops. Their mom isn't supposed to be home from work for another two hours, and that's – no, that's definitely not their mom. John leans down, peeking around the corner, and there's a girl on the couch.

Well, the girl's not technically on the couch. Tim is on the couch. The girl is on _Tim._

John's stuck there, just blinking, staring. It's not that he's never seen anything like this. He's watched what he considers an average amount of porn for an 18 year old boy in incognito windows on his laptop. Just not in _person_ , and not his _brother_.

The girl's still mostly clothed, just her shirt unbuttoned, and if she weren't rolling her hips rather aggressively into Tim's, John probably wouldn't have realized something more was going on. She's braced herself on Tim's shoulders and Tim's hands are big on her hips, painted nails digging into the fabric of her skirt. His eyes are dark, teeth bared, blonde hair unusually messy, and he's visibly close to his end, and John swallows dryly.

He realizes he's been staring for longer than is polite so he quietly backs up the stairs, then practically sprints back to his bedroom.

John is pretty sure his boner is entirely reactionary. And if he thinks about Tim more than he thinks about the girl when he jerks off that night, it's entirely an accident. Honest.

-

It's an accident if John leans closer to the bathroom door when Tim is showering, just in case he hears something. It's also an accident if John turns his music off when Tim goes to sleep in case he hears something then, too. Because obviously Tim has no reason to jerk off anymore now that he's seeing this girl.

The thing that isn't an accident is John planning. Because John can't fucking get the image of Tim's face out of his head and he has to see it again, and he wants to be the one to make him make that face again.

-

John's sitting on the basement couch with Tim. It's a Friday night but Tim had decided to stay in with John instead of go out drinking. Despite the four year age difference, they'd always been close, closer than most siblings, John thinks. They're marathoning universal monster films because they're John's favorite, and they ordered Chinese takeout earlier.

John keeps thinking about the couch, though. He's wondering how many times Tim has slept with girls on this couch. The count is obviously at least one.

“You seeing any girls lately?” John asks, making conversation. They haven't really caught up on this kinda thing in awhile, what with Tim having evening classes most nights.

“Er, yeah, kind of?” Tim says, breaking the tab off his soda can and flicking it at the television. He looks over at John. “Why? You gonna ask me for girl advice?”

“No,” John says quickly, then shrugs. “Just wondering. You know I never ask you for girl advice.”

“Okay, fine,” Tim says, grinning. “Yeah, I've been sleeping with this girl. She's in my psych class. What about you?”

The words hit John square in the virginity, right where it hurts. “Nope,” he says, trying not to sound too wounded. “Not seeing any boys either. Nothing to report on my end.” Tim nods, looking understanding.

“Have you ever?” he asks, and John frowns, which Tim takes as a no. He nods once. “Don't worry about it. It always feels like everybody is fucking everybody in high school when it's really only like, people in relationships. I didn't even have sex till I was eighteen, and it's only October. You have plenty of time before you turn nineteen. You're right on track with me.” John blinks at him.

“Really?” he asks, genuinely surprised. Tim nods. “Huh. That. That does make me feel a little better.”

“Told you,” Tim says. “Even if you haven't had sex by then it really doesn't matter. Virginity is a social construct anyway. Nobody's vagina is that life changing.” He squints an eye, tilts his head, considering it. “Okay, maybe like, Sasha Grey's vagina would be that life changing, but the point is, it's not a big deal.” John snorts a laugh, then chews into his lip.

“What if,” he says, pausing to reconsider if he should ask, but Tim's looking at him expectantly now, “what if I'm gonna turn nineteen and I haven't done it by then, though?”

“Then you turn nineteen and you have a whole other year to find somebody?” Tim says, waving a hand as if to ask John's point.

“No, I mean,” John says, running his finger around the rim of his soda can, “if I lose my virginity when I'm older than you then I'll _officially_ be a bigger loser than you are.”

“That's news to no one, you fucking nerd,” Tim remarks, flinging a noodle in John's direction. John looks offended. “Dude, I'm joking.”

“If I'm gonna turn nineteen and I haven't found somebody by then, would you do it?” John asks, looking down into his takeout box. Tim doesn't say anything at first, so John looks up, and Tim looks confused.

“Are you asking me to have sex with you?” Tim asks, narrowing an eye.

“Only if I haven't found somebody by my birthday I mean,” John clarifies, shrugging a shoulder. “At least that way I won't regret having sex with some random.”

“John,” Tim says. “I'm not gonna have sex with you. That'd be weird.”

“Oh,” John says, shrinking a bit. It stings, but John isn't sure what he expected Tim to say. “Okay. I understand.”

“Maybe one of my friends would, though,” Tim adds. “I could always try to set you up with one of them.”

“Yeah,” John says, leaning his head over to rest on his shoulder. “Maybe it'd be nice.” Clearly, the direct approach isn't the way to go. Tim offers his most reassuring smile, shoves him with a foot, and goes back to eating his chow mein.

-

John's laying in bed, listening through the thin wall between their rooms as Tim practices bass again. John's been trying to talk him into starting a band with him, but Tim doesn't think he's good enough yet. John thinks he's good, but they're both still sort of figuring out songwriting, and John can only really play covers of rock standards.

John turned his music off awhile ago to listen to Tim. He's learning something; he's been going between playing along with the song and then trying it by himself. John rolls over, sighing, resigning himself to another round of crushing candies on his phone while he mentally fights off the weird boner that threatens to arise any time he thinks about Tim's fingers for too long.

John decides that, if he isn't already going to hell for being queer and drinking underage, he probably is for wanting to fuck his brother. Truthfully, this whole thing he has for Tim has probably earned him first class tickets. With full bottle service. And all the flight attendants have huge boobs, and he's allowed to touch them.

There's a sharp staticky noise as Tim unplugs from his amp, and John frowns to himself. He'd been enjoying that. John decides he needs to get off, because all that thinking about Tim's fingers have him wound up. John waits for Tim to turn his music or his television on, enough noise to drown out the sounds he'd make, but he doesn't. He hears Tim flick the light switch and flop down on his bed.

Fuck.

John can't exactly not jerk off at this point, what with his dick as hard as it is, but Tim will definitely hear him – their beds are against the same wall, and... John considers it, chewing into his lip. Maybe it'd be a _good thing_ if Tim heard him.

John tosses his phone to the side, laying back into his pillow and staring up at the ceiling. He's so used to stifling himself that he's not sure he'll be able to make noise, but he figures it's worth a shot anyway. He pulls himself out of his boxers, spits in his hand, works himself overhand. John's got his eyes closed, thinking about Tim's hands on him, and the whimper that comes out is completely an accident. John bites his lips together, stills.

It's quiet on the other side of the wall for a moment. Then John hears the bed shift a bit, and then it goes quiet again.

John starts moving his hand again, in a loose grip at first, his head fucking spinning. He's never honestly, purposefully thought about Tim like this, and the fact that he might be listening just makes John even harder. He's leaking already and he swipes his thumb over his head, smearing it down his length, and another quiet moan escapes. John bites his lip, listening, but nothing. Maybe he's not being loud enough. He squeezes at the base and John jerks up at his hand a bit, letting an earnest moan slip out, as he thinks of Tim's red painted nails digging into his dick. John does it himself, just for experimenting's sake, and the hiss that comes out is sharp, quick, loud through his teeth.

“Ah,” he gasps. “Shit.”

John hears the bed on Tim's side of the wall shift again. Like he's getting closer to the wall, trying to hear. John tells himself he's imagining things, that he just wants to pretend Tim is listening for the sake of his fucked up fantasy. He throws his forearm over his eyes, working himself quickly, trying to stifle the louder moans into his elbow. John wonders if Tim can hear the quiet smack of skin on skin, every little gasp he makes. He can't keep himself focused. He arches off the bed, choking out a moan, his head full of images of Tim's mouth around him, the blue eyes he was always jealous of turned up at him.

“Fuck,” John grits out, forcing himself to let go of his cock when he inches too close to the edge. He catches his breath back, feeling the pooling in his hips uncoil, and listens. Tim's still quiet, and John can't help wondering if he's getting himself off too. He takes himself by the base, starting slow again, biting down on a knuckle. It feels too good, too intense. But if Tim's listening then he has to keep going.

John quickens his pace, letting himself moan. It feels hotter somehow, now that he's allowing himself to be vocal like this, even disregarding the very real possibility of Tim listening. Of Tim _getting off to it_. John dicks up into his hand, off the bed, whimpering, feeling himself wind up tighter and tighter, closer to his end.

When his orgasm hits him, the moan comes out long and keening, his hand moving quick as he spills into his fist and across his stomach. John gasps for breath, his throat raw and dry, hand still working through the aftershocks, whole body fucking exhausted.

And then it's quiet. John tries to breath slowly, quietly, and then he hears the bed move on Tim's side. He seems to get up, and then his bedroom door opens, and then the bathroom door closes.

John doesn't know what that means, exactly, but in the meantime he resigns to cleaning himself up and trying very hard not to think about what Tim is doing in that bathroom.

-

If Tim heard, then he doesn't say anything.

Breakfast in the morning is normal, if not a little awkward. Tim looks as if he didn't get much sleep, and when John gets up, he's bent over the kitchen table shoveling cereal into his mouth, his other hand rubbing his eye. He looks up when he hears John, face flushing visibly, but he's silent. He just gives John a sleepy nod with his mouth full of cereal.

-

John lets himself into Tim's room that night. There's part of John that wonders if it's too soon to implement plan C, since plan A and B both failed, but there's also part of him that thinks _fuck it_. So he opens Tim's door, pillow in hand, at about three in the morning.

Tim's head lifts off his pillow, hair sticking up at odd angles, eyes squinting to make out John's frame in the dark with half asleep eyes. He looks at him for a moment, as if to ask what he's doing in his room.

“Can't sleep,” John says, which isn't a complete lie. He stayed up on purpose but he wouldn't have been able to sleep even if he wanted to, with how anxious he is about the aforementioned plan C.

Tim nods wordlessly, shifting over on his bed and pulling the covers back. It's not completely out of the ordinary for John to sneak into Tim's bed when he can't sleep. John just sleeps better next to someone, and Tim understands. John puts his pillow on the bed and lays down next to Tim, pulling the blankets over them, still warm from his body heat. It's almost overwhelming to be in Tim's bed like this, and John can't keep the thought from his head of Tim getting himself off laying in this bed. Or fucking that girl from his psych class. Or fucking him. John sighs, settling himself into the mattress, body just touching Tim's around the edges, only what's necessary for a small bed to accommodate the two of them. Tim doesn't bother turning away from John, so John just carefully fits himself to Tim, who automatically drapes an arm around him.

“You alright?” Tim mumbles, seeming to notice John is closer to him than usual. John sighs. That low, sleepy voice always got to him.

“Better now,” John says, closing his eyes. He feels Tim nod behind his shoulder.

“Okay,” Tim yawns. “G'night.”

John can't help but just enjoy the contact for the moment. Tim's basically the big spoon, his arm around John's shoulders, and John waits a moment before he backs up into Tim a bit more. Tim doesn't seem to mind it. He doesn't even respond until John finally slots their hips together, his ass very much up against Tim's crotch.

It's a quiet noise and the smallest inch backwards. John decides to count it as a win and stays there, just waiting, awake, waiting to feel anything.

He does, after Tim has been asleep again for a few minutes. Tim pulls back up into him in his sleep, half hard from the contact or whatever he's dreaming about. John opens his eyes, staring into the darkness of Tim's room, at the wall across from him.

It's the first time John's even actually thought about Tim's dick. It was always about just... getting him off, whatever John could give him. But now that John can feel it, albeit with four layers of fabric between, he's suddenly overwhelmed with the need for it. And he can't help pushing back into it, feeling Tim rut back into him automatically, a gasp slipping from John's mouth.

It's a lot. It's too much. John stops, knows Tim is asleep, can't bring himself to do anything more. But it's there. And what if Tim wakes up. What if. _What if_. The phrase is quick, repeating in his head like his heartbeat.

John hasn't thought plan C through far enough to decide what he should do once he actually got to this point.

John considers it briefly. He gently moves closer to Tim, nudging him a bit, and Tim shifts awake, makes a soft noise when he realizes John is so close. He goes to move away and John grabs Tim's wrist, his arm still around him.

“Don't,” John says. Tim seems to hesitate.

“I'm sorry,” he says, looking down, hips pulling back from John's. “Didn't mean to.”

“It's okay,” John says. When Tim doesn't say anything, John adds, “I didn't mind it. I liked it.”

It's quiet. After a long moment, Tim seems to relax a bit, pulling John back in but not pushing their hips back together.

“Go to sleep,” Tim says.

John goes to sleep. When he wakes up in the morning, Tim is gone.

-

It wasn't part of the plan. It sort of happens on accident.

John is sitting on Tim's bed, and they're listening to one of Tim's old Nine Inch Nails vinyls as Tim puts his makeup on to go out. One of the clubs in the city has a monthly goth night, and Tim and his friends go. John's not old enough to get in yet, so he just sits around and watches Tim get ready while he messes around on Tim's laptop.

Tim's rubbing his eyes, black smeared on his fingers, blinking at himself in the mirror. John goes to open a new tab in the browser window when he realizes that this is Tim's laptop, and maybe there's some good information John can use to his advantage. Like Tim's porn preferences.

John gives a quick scroll through Tim's history. John sort of wonders if Tim has any webcam pictures he should send to himself, but that'd probably be safer to do when Tim _isn't_ five feet away from him, regardless of how focused on his makeup he is. Sure enough, he comes across a few conspicuous looking URLs. He sends them to himself to check later.

“How's this look?” Tim asks.

John starts a bit, closing the tab. He looks up at Tim, and he sighs. Tim's eyes are always impossibly blue when he puts black around them, and his black lipstick is uneven and messy and John wishes he could smear it some more himself. He swallows thickly.

“Looks good,” he says. “Can I try some of your makeup on?”

“Got a date I don't know about?” Tim remarks, sitting on the bed to put his boots on once John has tucked his legs up out of the way. 

“Nah,” John says. “Just curious to see what I'd look like I guess.”

“Sure,” Tim says, not looking up from his laces as John goes over to his dresser. “Just don't use my eyeliner. I don't need your punk ass giving me pink eye from some high schooler.”

“Shut up,” John says, rifling through compacts. He opens some black and swipes it onto his eyelids just as Tim had, then opens a couple lipsticks. He picks out a red and paints his mouth with it, smacking his lips together once before stepping back to look at himself. “What do you think?” John asks, looking back at Tim, who's just finishing tying his second boot.

Tim looks up, but he doesn't say anything. He just kind of stills, hands still on his boot laces, lips parted in surprise. John bites his lip. Tim goes to say something, then closes his mouth, and looks at his phone, which hasn't made any noise in half an hour.

“I gotta go,” Tim says quickly, pocketing the phone and rushing out past John.

-

John checks the links while Tim is out that night, and suddenly Tim's reaction makes a lot more sense.

All John needs now is an excuse.

-

John hears Tim before he sees him. He's heavy-footed coming down the steps to the basement, and for a moment John wonders how Tim didn't hear him coming downstairs last month, but then Tim comes around the couch John sees he's wearing those heavy platformed boots. John looks at those first, then at the two six packs of beer he's setting down on the table in front of them.

“Sibling bonding night,” Tim remarks, dropping onto the couch next to John. “Don't get too drunk this time. I'm not dragging you up the stairs again if your depth perception is gone.”

“Except that you totally would,” John says, grabbing a can and cracking it open. “Because I'm your baby brother and you would do literally anything I wanted.” Tim rolls his eyes.

“I'd probably carry you up the stairs but I'd totally smack your shins on the doorways on purpose as revenge,” he says. “Or I'd just tell mom you were drinking.”

“You wouldn't,” John says matter of factly.

“Says who?” Tim asks, breaking open his own beer.

“Because who else would give me my own six pack of his favorite beer?” John remarks. He drinks. “Mom would totally know you were buying me booze.”

“Shit,” Tim says. “Okay, fair. Just don't get shit-faced and I won't have to smack your shins on the doorways. Deal?”

“Deal,” John says, bumping the rim of his can against Tim's. “I went ahead and lined up all the Saw DVDs. Wanna see how many we can cram in before one of us passes out on the couch?”

“That series is a shit show,” Tim says. “Obviously, yes.”

Either John gets buzzed fast or the movies aren't actually that bad, because he's thoroughly enjoying himself. Sure, they're a little heavy-handed with the moralism, but John doesn't mind that. He's leaned over on Tim, legs tucked under him and half his pack gone. Tim is on his fourth beer. They're about halfway through the second film when Tim clears his throat and John turns his eyes up, the flat pale expanse of Tim's neck close to his face. Before the logical portion of his brain can stop him, John lifts his head and plants a firm, long kiss to his neck. Tim doesn't flinch away or anything, just glances down at him.

“What was that for?” Tim asks.

“No reason,” John says, even though he can still feel the heat of Tim's skin on his mouth. Tim seems to take this as an acceptable answer, because he doesn't say anything else. He just looks back to the film, finishes his beer.

“I saw you,” John says, body suddenly fluid with adrenaline or alcohol. Tim looks down at John on his shoulder again, brows furrowed.

“What are you talking about?” Tim asks.

“With that girl,” John says. “From your psych class. Came downstairs and saw you with her.”

“Erin?” Tim asks, eyes flashing between John and the television. “Wh- what did you see?”

“She was on top of you,” John says, feeling himself stiffen at the memory.

“Fuck, dude,” Tim says, smearing his face with an open hand. “I'm sorry. I-”

“No,” John says, sitting up a bit. “It's okay. I'm not mad. Is it bad if I liked it?”

The words hang in the air for a moment, John watching expectantly as Tim seems to think it over in his head.

“I – I don't think so?” Tim says, voice quirking up at the end, his uncertainty showing. “I mean, she's hot as fuck. Of course you'd like seeing her like that, even if it was with me.”

“You don't get it,” John says, awkwardly shifting up to kneel on the couch, uncoordinated. “It's not her. It's because it was with you. I liked it.”

“John,” Tim says, twisting to face John fully, “you're drunk.”

“I'm a little drunk,” John says, grabbing Tim's shoulder to steady himself. “But I can't stop thinking about it. I want. I'm jealous of _her_.”

“You're drunk,” Tim says again, more firmly this time. 

“You're drunk too,” John says, despite the fact that Tim is hardly buzzed.

“You're drunker,” Tim says. “You should eat something. Did you eat before we drank? You shouldn't-”

“Please,” John says, climbing halfway into Tim's lap. “I could ride you right now. Would be just like with her.”

“Not when you're drunk,” Tim says, putting his hands on John's sides to keep him from rubbing up against him. “I can't – you don't – _brothers_ don't do that.”

“It doesn't matter,” John says, shaking his head. “Not to me.”

“Okay,” Tim says, still not looking away from John. “We need to get you to bed. If I go with you will you go to bed?”

“Yeah, okay,” John says, standing on skinny legs. “You gonna fuck me there?”

“No, John,” Tim says, nudging him to the stairs. “Not tonight. Hopefully you'll forget all this in the morning, okay.”

Tim wrangles John upstairs and into bed, and by the time Tim comes back with a glass of water, John's already asleep.

-

John spends most of the week leading up to Halloween wondering why Tim is avoiding him.

-

“Can I borrow your boots?” John asks, standing in Tim's doorway on Halloween night.

When Tim looks up from his notebook, he stares. His mouth falls open, looking John over, blinking dumbly. He's wearing a _skirt_. A pleated plaid one, to be exact, along with fishnet stockings held up by garters, and a plain black crop top, topped off with a fucking feather boa and a full face of makeup. 

“Jeordie's having a Halloween party,” John says, before Tim has a chance to ask what he's wearing. “I'm a hooker. There's a costume contest and winner gets a hundred bucks.”

“So you're a _cheap_ hooker,” Tim remarks. 

“Fuck off, I'm classy,” John says, frowning at him. “You'd totally have to call a one eight hundred number to get ahold of me.”

“Yeah, fine,” Tim says. “You can wear the boots. They're by the closet.”

John swallows thickly, feeling Tim still watching him as he pads over to the closet, then takes a deep breath and sighs it out before he bends over, folding at the waist to pick up Tim's boots where they lay on the floor.

“Oh my fucking _god_ ,” Tim says from behind him.

John has to bite his red lips together to keep the smile off his face. He stays down for a moment too long, making sure Tim has plenty of time to take it all in before he stands back up, going to walk over to the bed to put the boots on.

John doesn't get to the bed. Tim turns his chair around, grabs John by the skirt and yanks him over, pushing it up unceremoniously, exposing John's garter belt and the black lace panties beneath them, the fabric obviously straining to keep him covered. Tim is quiet for a long few seconds and John just lets him stare till he finally looks up and catches his eye.

“Di- don't you know you're supposed to wear the panties outside the garter belt?” Tim asks, voice faltering on the first word, but steady for the rest of the sentence.

“What?” John asks. “Why?”

“If you wear them under the garter straps, you can't take them off,” Tim says. “If you're really going to dress as a high class hooker, you should. You should fix it.”

“They're for you,” John says, stomach turning as he speaks. “I looked in your internet history and saw the videos. So I bought these and I like them but I want to know if you like them too.”

John physically sees Tim crack. He winces a bit, hands still fisted in John's skirt, and then all at once it comes down, and Tim laughs. He fucking laughs, letting the skirt fall and he smears his hands over his face, looking up at John from his chair.

“Close the door,” Tim says. “You should probably lock it too.”

John can barely get the door closed and locked before Tim is pulling the boa off him, tossing it aside. He practically shoves John onto the bed, rucking his skirt up around his waist, hip bones awkwardly jutting out from the lace waistband.

“Do you like them?” John asks.

“John,” Tim says, voice low, warning, and there's no mistaking the heat in his eyes for anything else. 

“I did my lipstick for you too,” John says, shifting under Tim's hands on his waist. His cock drags against the lace and he can't help the little gasp that comes out, the way his hips stutter up.

Tim snaps. “ _Fuck!_ ” he says, grabbing a fistful of John's blonde hair. “You little fucking _tease_. It's been three fucking weeks.” John's eyes water from the sting, but he still reaches for Tim, hands on his arms, wanting him closer, needing it in the worst sort of way. Tim doesn't give John the chance to respond. “I'm not doing this anymore. I won't.”

“Please,” is all John can whimper out.

Tim pushes John down into the bed, shoving his thigh between John's legs, pushing them apart and then pressing up against the panties, lace against the leather of his pants. John ruts into it, keening obscenely, and Tim swears and kisses him. It's sharp like broken glass, and Tim digs his red painted nails into John's scalp, licking into his mouth as John rolls up into the hard surface of his thigh, desperate for contact. Tim reaches down with his free hand, snaps John's fishnets free from the garter belt, pins his hips down to the bed. When he comes up for air, Tim's mouth is smeared red with lipstick.

“Fuck,” he says again, “stay still.”

John freezes. Tim grabs at his crop top, and John lets him pull it off. Tim's eyes take in the expanses of pale skin, and by all means John should feel weird about it. He feels exposed, yes, but he feels _pretty_ , wanted, as Tim looks him over. John was always jealous of Tim and how he'd filled out, shoulders widening, muscle building, while John's awkward adolescence had simply become awkward adulthood. 

“You're gorgeous,” Tim says.

The second kiss is no less dirty than the first. They press together, leather of Tim's pants sticking against John's thighs. They're both hard. John moans into it, grabbing at any bit of fabric or skin he can get a grip on. The sound makes Tim growl.

“Fuck, John,” he says, swiping a thumb across John's kiss swollen lips. Before John can stop himself he licks over the pad of the digit, taking it into his mouth. “Shit. Do you have any idea what you've been doing to me?”

“Tell me,” John says, mouthing a kiss at Tim's palm and the skin between Tim's thumb and forefinger.

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ ,” Tim says. “Your _mouth_. Couldn't stop thinking about how good you'd look with my cock in it. You on your knees. With those red lips. _Shit_.”

John doesn't say anything in response. He just takes Tim's hand in his, guiding three fingers into his mouth all at once. Tim swears, pushing them in, John tilting his head back as Tim traps his tongue and fucks the digits into his mouth, a little mean and rough. John moans, loves the feeling, even as he gags.

“Yeah, good boy,” Tim says, and John moans louder. Tim pulls the fingers out, smearing them across John's face, wiping spit and lipstick everywhere. John feels used, probably looks used too, and Tim stands up in front of him, eyes traveling back down his body. John looks with him. His fishnets have slid down his thighs, the garters undone, skirt rucked up around his waist carelessly. His cock is trapped in the flimsy panties, straining obscenely against wet lace.

He looks slutty. Feels slutty.

Tim hitches John's legs up over his shoulders, leaning down to fold John back over himself. He mouths kisses at John's chest, leaving little red smears.

“Please,” John says, arching up at Tim's affection. “Please, Tim.”

“I know,” Tim says, his hand between them, unsnapping the button fly of his pants, and oh fuck. John wants that, wants it in his mouth, wants to make sure Tim never has to wonder what it'd look like ever again, and apparently John says that out loud because Tim says “Next time, baby,” and the promise of a next time is enough for him. They're kissing again, then, sort of frantic and messy, and the sudden weight of Tim's cock on John's is enough to make him arch up off the bed.

“Oh, fuck,” John says. He looks down to see, and Tim slides against the lace, the pressure sending John's hips clear up off the bed.

“You gonna cum in your panties, John?” Tim asks, and it doesn't sound the least bit patronizing.

“Don't want to,” John says, as Tim drags his cock against John's, friction just on the side of painful. “Want you to fuck me.”

“Yeah?” Tim asks, then, “yeah, fuck, I'm gonna fuck you.” John's whole body feels liquid, Tim's voice like wet heat when he says it, and the sound of Tim's drawer opening brings him back. “I like these panties though. Will you keep them on for me?”

“Yeah, of course,” John says, squirming to pull them down. The shock of cold air on his skin makes his breath catch a little, and Tim keeps John's legs over his shoulders as he slicks his fingers with lube, carelessly tossing the bottle as his fingers slide over where John needs them the most. 

“It's not gonna hurt,” Tim says, even as he's starting to press a finger in. John gasps, arches into it.

“I know,” he says. “Done it before.”

“God, you fucking slut,” Tim remarks, grinning as he easily hilts the digit down to the knuckle. John moans, biting into his lip.

“Do another one,” he says, and Tim nods, pushing his middle finger in alongside the index, and John purrs, rolling his hips at him. “That's so good,” John says breathlessly, Tim's fingers deeper inside him than he's ever been able to reach himself.

“Yeah?” Tim asks, voice still low, but softer. “Could get you off like this. Make you make a mess all over yourself.” John whines, shaking his head. “You really want me to fuck you, huh?”

“Yes, please,” John begs, breath catching when Tim curls his fingers. The idea hits him all at once, the first time the thought has even filled his head, but he blurts it out: “I want to ride you.” And it makes perfect sense, really, for John to ride him, because that's what started this whole thing. Tim laughs once, seeming to realize why John wants it, but he nods.

“Yeah, you can,” he says, easing a third finger in. John keens, reaching down to stroke himself just once, just to take the edge off.

“Wanna do it now,” John says, grabbing Tim's wrist. “I can take it. Promise.”

“You sure?” Tim asks, and John nods quickly, so Tim slides his fingers out, pulls John's panties off, and wipes lube on them. “Get up so I can lay down.”

John stands on the shakiest legs of his life, watching as Tim lays back on the bed, sitting upright in the pillows. Tim doesn't bother to take any more clothes off, so neither does John, even though his cock kind of awkwardly tents the skirt.

“C'mere, princess,” Tim says, and in any other situation John would probably fling the nearest pillow directly at Tim's face for calling him that. Instead, he climbs into Tim's lap, grabbing for the lube bottle again and dumps some out into his hand, reaching behind him to slick Tim's cock up. There's a brief moment of panic as he's pushing Tim's shirt up with his free hand, when John realizes that this is _Tim_ and he's _jerking Tim off_ and they're about to do _so much fucking worse_ than that, but then he realizes that he really can't be bothered to worry. If the way Tim tilts his head back and pushes up into John's grip is any indication, Tim isn't worried either.

John thinks, _fuck it_ , and after a moment of fumbling with his lubey hand, Tim finally sinks home.

Tim doesn't say anything, but his lipstick smeared mouth falls open, eyes blue and wide like he can't believe they're doing this. John doesn't care, can't care. He sits all the way down in Tim's lap, rocking his hips slowly, getting the feel for it. He feels full and strung tight, wound up like a guitar string around a tuning peg. Tim's hands grab John's hips and he remembers it again, Tim's hands big on the fabric of her skirt and John whimpers out loud. John folds himself over Tim's body, kissing him, holding his face in his hands as he guides John's hips.

“Better than I imagined,” Tim says into John's mouth, lips still mashed together, and John nods. Tim tucks John's skirt up onto itself, the hem into the waistband, his eyes down at where they're connected so obscenely. “So fucking good, John.” And John doesn't ever want to hear Tim say his name any other way ever again.

“Been thinking about this ever since I saw you,” John says, starting to ride Tim in earnest now, and Tim gasps against his mouth. “Couldn't get it out of my fucking head. Came so many times thinking about this, about _you_.”

“Heard you,” Tim admits, nails digging little half moons in John's ass. “The other week. Heard you getting off. Had to go to the bathroom to do it myself. Didn't want you to hear me and think I was being a creep.”

“Shut up,” John says, kissing Tim. Tim moans into it, dicking up into John, meeting him in the middle. John arches, bracing himself with small hands on Tim's chest, quickening his pace, their hips smacking together audibly. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“I know,” Tim says, dragging his nails in red lines across John's hips. John jerks reflexively, feeling the pain right in his cock in the best way possible. “You like that?” Tim asks, and John nods, so he does it again, scraping down his thighs.

“Stop, gonna make me cum,” John says, laying down into Tim's chest and slowing his pace, his cock trapped between their bodies. “Don't want to yet. Wanna ride you forever.”

“More, next time,” Tim says. “I want you to cum.” 

“Next time,” John says, nodding, grinding his cock into Tim's stomach. Tim nods too, as if to urge him on, so he keeps doing that, dicking against Tim as Tim fucks up into him. His mouth falls open, breathless, overwhelmed. “Gonna ride you next time too. All the times.”

“As many times as you want,” Tim says, grabbing handfuls of John's ass, and John hisses, Tim's grip tight. 

“And I'm gonna suck your cock,” John says, and Tim fails to stifle the moan that slips out. “I want to. I want you to use my mouth.” 

“Fucking whore,” Tim says, the word sounding downright filthy, and John feels the tightening in his gut. 

“I'm gonna cum,” John says, his orgasm building quickly.

“Yes, fuck, do it,” Tim says. “Cum. Do it for me.”

John doesn't need convincing. His orgasm hits him harder than it ever has, and he's spilling between them, bodies stuck together as Tim fucks into him, chasing his own end. John's lightheaded, still spinning as he feels Tim fall over the edge, his head dropping back into the pillows as he cums inside John, spilling seemingly endlessly.

The enormity of the situation doesn't really hit until John comes down, still sat on Tim's cock with Tim under him with his arm thrown over his eyes, like he's hungover and the light is too bright for him.

In all his planning, John had never accounted for what was supposed to happen after.

“You okay?” Tim asks quietly. John's worry must be legible on his face.

“Are you?” John asks. Tim nods. “Then I'm okay too.”

“You should probably call Jeordie and tell him you're not gonna make the party,” Tim says.

“Probably,” John says. “Um. Can I stay in here with you?”

“Yeah,” Tim says, sitting up a bit. “I believe I promised you a next time.”

John sits up, feeling their skin stick when they separate. He nods, rolling over to lay next to Tim.

“You may have,” John says. He smiles to himself. “Still got some time before mom gets home. Should we go shower this off?”

**Author's Note:**

> playlist for this fic by my wonderful angel of a friend devon can be found [here!](http://brianhwarner.tumblr.com/post/152356447432/)


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